


Survival According to Antivan Assassins

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Black Emporium 2020 [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Carta dwarves with hearts of gold, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Named Brosca (Dragon Age), POV Zevran Arainai, Sweet Zevran Arainai, The Black Emporium Exchange, Zevran Arainai Flirts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25739800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Narah Brosca really got recruited into the Grey Wardens for one reason, her sheer, stubborn refusal to die. Zevran Arainai has that in common, despite the way they both chase their deaths.When it cuts a little close to Narah, Zevran has to confront his feelings are more complicated than he'd like.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Brosca, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Narah Brosca
Series: Black Emporium 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924909
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Survival According to Antivan Assassins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Thank you to my friends who showed me the amazing translation trick used in this fic! To get the translations of the "Antivan" (Italian) in the text, hover over the text or scroll to the bottom. 
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful betas and lovely friends <3 I would be crazy without you. I'd like to specifically thank: 
> 
> [Blarfkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey)  
> [LostinFantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38)  
> [Toshi_Nama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama)  
> [TheRareFereldanCatLord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRareFereldanCatLord/pseuds/TheRareFereldanCatLord)  
> [Coryfirelion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coryfirelion)  
> [Tuffypelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuffypelly)
> 
> You all beta'd and supported me for different fics in the Exchange for me and I cannot remember who did what SO just let it be known I appreciate all of you for your love and support.

It wasn’t the first time Narah Brosca had been stabbed. 

She’d been blooded in Dust Town before she hit double digits. Rica and Mama needed to eat so she picked pockets in the commons until she scrounged enough coppers to get a loaf of bread. She carried her precious burden back through Orzammar’s slums, only to run into a gang of newly inked Carta youths just as hungry as she was.

Honestly, as in so many things, that first fight came down to two things. Luck and _grit._ Narah managed to get away, blood trickling down her wounded shoulder, a shiny hard won dagger stained crimson in her hands. 

It’d been her blood she cleaned off the blade while mama ate and Rica fussed, but she cleaned far more blood off it since, and none of it hers. The Carta claimed her for their own after that because of her stubborn determination. She survived them for the same reason. 

It was probably why the Wardens wanted her anyway. Her sheer refusal to just _fucking_ die made her perfect for a suicide mission. 

It wasn’t the first time she was stabbed, but it came awfully close to being the last time. 

The werewolves claws sank through leathers like the gauzy silk Beraht dressed Rica in and tore her flesh in ribbons. Narah’s fault, she should have been faster to cover Alistair’s flank. As it was, she barely had enough room to twist away. She felt her bad hip, another Carta injury that never quite healed right, grind in the joint. It still served her well enough to level the crossbow she held and put a bolt right between the crazed eyes. It dropped seconds before it’s teeth found her throat. 

Narah twisted to take in the rest of the battle and very nearly followed it to the ground. The wound in her abdomen pulsed and throbbed in protest and sent waves of pain to her knees. She staggered, but regained her footing before she could fall. 

Around her, the battle appeared finished. The last living creature struggled weakly on the ground, Zevran crouching above it, his dagger flashing in the dappled light of the trees. He was whistling a song, Narah thought she recalled it from the last village they passed through. Something about a woman turning a former lover into a chicken she cooked in her stew. 

Narah pressed her palm to the new gash in her armor. Slick, hot blood pulsed between her fingers with each heartbeat so she pushed down harder. Wynne leaned, exhausted, on her staff. The old woman mopped at her forehead before shooting a kindly look down to Narah. “Are you well, Warden?” 

“Yes.” Narah hissed through her teeth. “Pulled a muscle.” 

“And there are such better ways to pull a muscle, no?” Zevran stopped humming, she hadn’t even noticed. Honestly, the whole world seemed to be growing farther away, sounds drowned out by a roaring in her head. 

“That does seem to be a fair amount of blood.” Zevran observed. He never betrayed anything in his tone but cheerful optimism. “Although you do wear it well.” 

“Werewolves bleed a lot when you stab them.” She grunted. 

“Maker, do they.” Alistair appeared beside Wynne, sweeping a critical gaze over their elderly mage. “Are you alright? That one got close enough to smell, and Andraste _the smell_.” 

“Thank you for your concern, Alistair.” Wynne’s smile crinkled at the corners. Narah wondered if anyone ever smiled at _her_ the way Wynne smiled at Alistair. Certainly Mama never had. “I’ll be fine.” 

“We need to push on.” Narah spat through gritted teeth. Blood still oozed past her small fingers. She wished it would _stop_. She wished all of this would _stop_ and she could go to sleep. “The sodding temple is just a bit further, right?” 

“With your armor ripped so?” Zevran widened his eyes. “My fair Narah, I won’t be able to concentrate. Do let us look at it and see if it can’t be patched.” 

That statement drew both Wynne and Alistair’s attention. But it was Alistair that leapt into action. “Narah!” 

Alistair dropped to his knees in the loamy earth. His gauntlets fell on her shoulder, holding her upright. Her eyes found his, locked on golden brown gone dark with worry, but it was a struggle. He still seemed so far away, even with the pressure of his grip. “Narah, stay with me.” 

Cold, soft fingers pulled hers away from the wound. She was too tired to fight them. “You’ve gotta get to the temple.” 

“Not without you.” Alistair snapped. “You’re gonna be fine, you blighted, _stubborn_ , mad-” 

She didn’t have time to argue with him. “If we can get the Dalish to help, remember we need archers. Archers and…” 

There was something else, but she couldn’t remember it. It danced on the edge of her mind in the darkest recesses, the same places Mama’s shrieks lingered and Rica’s broken sobs. Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them back quickly. Dusters did not cry. Grey Wardens did not cry. 

“-can’t do this without you, Narah.” Alistair was still talking. She didn’t even know if he heard her about the archers. Did he write it down like he swore he would? She didn’t know. The letters were beyond her. 

Everything was beyond her. Too high for her to reach. They’d do it without her. Do it _better_ without her.

Strong, solid arms wrapped just above her ribs and someone pressed their chest to her back. The last thing she heard was a whispered promise in her ear in an accent that sounded like music.

“I have you, Warden.” 

* * *

Zevran did not see the blow that nearly took Narah from them, and that bothered him most of all. He did make it a point of professional pride to keep an eye on her, after all. It was the least he could do after she’d been so accommodating about the attempted assassination he organized. 

Instead, he looked up from cheerfully slitting throats to see _her_ blood gushing between small fingers and her pale face demanding they march on as if they wouldn’t be leaving her body in a charming ravine somewhere along the way.

Perhaps she too harbored a death wish and that was why accepting the Antivan Crow into their ranks had caused her to barely bat one coal dark eyelash. 

Lashes the same color as the unruly curls slipping from the tight braids she wore when Alistair lifted her like a precious burden. Zevran cherished many fantasies about undoing those braids while whispering filth in the other rogue’s ear. So far, he hadn’t succeeded in making her blush. No surprise, truly, if the rumors of the casteless in Orzammar were true. She probably harbored as few reservations about sex as he. 

But he would relish the opportunity to bring pink sparkling up underneath the cruel brand on her cheek and feel her blood pulse with desire.

_The blood littering the forest floor where she nearly fell._

Zevran followed the elderly mage and warrior, eyes on the braid swinging over the human’s arm. A complicated knot of feelings settled low in his gut, one he couldn’t help prodding. It would be a shame, he reasoned, to lose such a pretty face before he succeeded in seeing it lost in pleasure. And, of course, she was the only thing standing between him and the Antivan Crows. Alistair wouldn’t step in to save him if it came to it, he’d been very clear he thought Narah insane when she chose to save him. 

And it wasn’t unreasonable to feel some warmth toward the woman who didn’t kill him, especially when she welcomed him with open arms instead. 

It was nothing more than a tangled web of lust, gratitude, and admiration. Surely. 

A thought he pondered while she slept in their makeshift camp. Wynne patched her up quite soundly, but even she couldn’t replenish lost blood with a snap of her fingers. Two elfroot potions poured down Narah’s throat certainly would speed up the process, but they wouldn’t be making it much farther into the forest before morning. 

Alistair took the first watch. The flickering flames of the fire illuminated both guilt and grief playing over noble features. Self-flagellation had never appealed to Zevran, but he knew better than to attempt to take the mental whip from someone intent on flaying themselves open. A cruel part of Zevran wished to ask the warden how much of his guilt was born of selfish fear, but he knew Narah wouldn’t thank him for antagonizing their resident noble bastard while she recovered. Alistair should have been there to take the blow that ripped her open.

If one purchased a shield, one did count on it to do its job. He had failed his fellow warden, just as much as Zevran had. After all, if one hired an assassin, one did it only to kill others, not to protect. Still, he had pledged himself to her. He had failed too. 

He did not know why that thought kept sleep from finding him. 

Hours later, Alistair moved. Before the man could stoop to wake him from his bedroll, Zevran rolled lightly to his feet. Alistair stopped short, staring at him across the fire before he sighed. “You too, huh?” 

The lie came to his tongue easily, but he feared it hid nothing. “Ah! You also had the dream of the naked chantry novices? It is one of my favorites.” 

Alistair snorted in disbelief. “Right. Whatever you say. I’m gonna try and sleep. Wake me up if something tries to kill us.” 

“And you thought you would never grow to trust me.” 

“I don’t.” Alistair dropped his eyes to the small bedroll beside Wynne’s, the fight going out of his shoulders. “But Andraste, I trust her.” 

The truth of that statement, one that rang far too close to Zevran’s own more blasphemous thoughts, stole the barbs from his tongue. He watched the bear of a man shake his head and move to his own bedroll in silence. 

They trusted _her_. Narah led with blazing courage, reckless determination, and a beguiling curiosity that always made him smile. You knew where you stood with her, knew she had your back if she counted you a partner. 

Zevran had trusted so few people, and with such disastrous results, that the thought of doing so once more made him consider fleeing into the night.

The memory of her blood spilling crimson through squeezed fingers stopped him cold. He peered, suspicious, out at the dark shadows of trees before flopping into the spot Alistair abandoned. 

The man’s snores rumbled across camp not long after. Zevran settled into his usual routine. Night watch afforded him an excellent opportunity to hone his blades and check his own stash of poisons. He was well stocked, for now, although he suspected he’d need to barter with the Dalish for more before they left the forest for good. 

_The Dalish_. Zevran grinned to himself and shook his head. Who knew what strange turns his life would take?

“It’s my turn for watch.” 

Not many could sneak up upon him. The fact that Narah could, even nursing an injury, inspired equal parts fear and desire. She was a rogue after his own heart, after all. He looked up from his little vials to raise a casual brow. “Ah, good. You have decided to rejoin us.” 

She’d thrown the thin blanket from her bedroll around her shoulders to ward off the chill, but she still shivered in the cool air. A symptom of blood loss, of course, same as her too pale complexion. Her eyes, dark as the night itself, captured the flickering firelight and sparkled with it. Wynne must have unpinned her braids, and Zevran allowed himself a moment of jealousy. He would have done _such_ a better job of slowly releasing those wild curls that fell past her shoulders. But at least he could admire the fruits of Wynne’s labor. 

“It’s my turn for watch, Zevran.” Narah repeated, impatiently brushing those curls from her round cheek. Her fingers still had spots of her blood on them. 

Zevran sighed, gesturing to Alistair’s sleeping form. “If you are tired of my company, I would prefer you slit my throat. If Alistair found out I allowed you to take a watch, he would be rather stabby.” 

Her lips curled up in a weak smile. “I’ll handle Alistair.” 

He had little doubt she could. The same way he had little doubt she needed more rest than she wanted to allow herself. Instead of voicing that opinion, he simply sharpened his grin into something wolfish. “I would much rather you manhandle me, bellissima.” 

Narah didn’t quite laugh, but her smile softened at the corners. “You’re a sodding fool.” 

Almost certainly. How else did he end up in a war for the very world? But his mistakes didn’t bear talking about just at this moment. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine.” She answered, defensive. “I’m fine.” 

Because not being fine, of course, was death. He suspected, although he had no proof, that there was no room in the Carta for weakness. It was the same with the Crows. It did not matter if you were the strongest, the most handsome, the most clever, or the best. It took only one moment of weakness for the whole thing to crumble around your pointed ears.

“If you wish, cara mia, I would not mind the company. It is so lonely to polish your blades alone.” 

He punctuated the invitation with a lascivious wink. She rolled her eyes to the sky above them, but froze halfway through the motion. Zevran traced her face hungrily, drowning in the stars reflected in those endless orbs. 

She’d never seen them before a few months ago, and yet he could not look at them any longer without picturing the way they shimmered in her eyes. Her breath gusted through plump lips in a soft sigh. “It was close, wasn’t it?” 

“I have a strong belief that any battle that can be walked away from is, in fact, a victory.” Zevran offered. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” She looked old for a second, the shadows settling on her face marking her as ancient beyond her years. Truth be told, she couldn’t be older than twenty, but sometimes her shoulders slumped with the cares of men and women twice her age. 

“What did you think of the Dalish?” Narah asked, apparently resigning herself to his obstinacy. 

“They are a proud people, the Dalish. I admit, I am unfamiliar with them as they are here. You would not ask a dwarf from Antiva what they thought of Orzammar, no?” 

She giggled. “Only cause I know what they’d say. _Every_ dwarf says the same thing about Orzammar.” 

Something underneath the levity stirred his own anger. They’d go to Orzammar, eventually, and confront whatever she left behind. Judging by the hint of anguish beneath her fine features, it would be a miserable day. 

That was tomorrow’s problem, though. Tonight… well. Tonight, he finally had her to himself. If only there was a decent bed and she _wasn’t_ nursing a near fatal wound. Pity.

“I’ve always been fond of the Dalish, I admit.” Zevran continued, sliding to the side and patting the rotting log beside him. “My mother was Dalish, or so I was told. She fell in love with a fine, burly woodcutter and followed him far from her clan. He, unfortunately, caught a fever and perished. She was pressed into service to pay his debts at a brothel.” 

Narah perched gingerly on the log, leaning towards the flickering flames to steal the warmth for herself. “Of course she was. Isn’t that how it is? Men get all the glory, women give their guts.”

Wasn’t that the truth? The next words came out even more bitter than they usually did. “It was not for long. I was told she died giving birth to me, my first victim.” 

“That’s not your fault.” Narah broke in, brow furrowing. “We can’t help what we’re born.” 

He wondered if she knew the fingers that brushed her hair from her cheek, again, also brushed against the scarred burn emblazoned on her face.

“And what of Orzammar?” Zevran couldn’t help his curiosity. “How does this stunning dwarf beside me feel about her home?” 

“It wasn’t my home. I didn’t belong there.” Her bitter answer didn’t surprise him, but it also didn’t sate his curiosity. 

“Ah, but surely you have opinions?” He pried shamelessly. 

She sighed, shoulders hunching in defense of his questions. “What does it matter, Zevran?” 

“You poke, pry, cajole, and threaten all our life stories from us. We cannot return the favor?” He asked, affecting an air of innocence. “I simply want to know more of the deadly goddess I am enthralled to.” 

“I’m a Carta thug who _should_ be dead if the world was a decent place. But it’s not. And here I am.” She spat the words into the fire, glaring into it, her face carved from the stone her people crawled out of.

Zevran was not pleased to discover he’d been right about the death wish. 

“And what, may I ask, have you done to disqualify you from the land of the living?” He indicated himself with a flourish. “I, after all, was deemed worth saving by you.” 

“You didn’t want to kill me, it was a job.” Narah’s fist tightened on the thin blanket. 

“And you wished to kill, bambolotta?” He asked quietly. “I find that hard to believe.” 

As quickly as her anger came, it vanished in a tide of exhaustion. Her glassy eyes reflecting the flames could have been watching something that happened years prior. “Beraht recruited me into the Carta. He already had Rica, but she’s beautiful.” 

“You are-” 

Her lips twitched up slightly and she shook her head, interrupting him. “Not like Rica. Rica could have made our fortunes. Found a patron to take us all outta Dust Town. Given him a string of sons.” 

“Could have?” He asked softly. 

“I was in the way. In trouble. Another mouth to feed. One day, after I pulled Rica away from her training again, Beraht told me it was time to start earning my keep. Gave me a dagger, told me to get the money this duster owed him.” 

Narah laughed, humorlessly, before continuing. “Bastard stole from him, wish I had the guts. Turns out, he had twins. Don't know where their mama was, but the babies were crying when I was there. Sometimes I still hear them.” 

Zevran didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The story poured out of her like poison. “It was easy. He was old, for a Duster. You don’t get old easy there, you get old in a mass of scars and barely healed bones. The babies cried the whole time. He was reaching for them when I dug the blade into his throat. I took everything in that house.” 

She paused, haunted, before spitting out the last word. “Except the babies. I left them. I don’t think anyone ever went back for them, unless it was to drop ‘em in the deep roads or into the pit.” 

“It was a job.” Zevran murmured. 

“Beraht was pleased.” She growled. “Rica was _elated_ that I’d done something right for a change. I was _proud_. Killed a man trying to feed his babes, and I was _proud_.” 

He brought a hand up to tuck that stubborn curl that had fallen forward again back behind her ear. He allowed his thumb to trace the brand on her face while the firelight played over her features. “There is no shame in pride for a job well done.” 

“It wasn’t a job well done, Zevran.” She choked on the anguish, opened her lips again, but he brushed his fingers over them to silence her. 

“Surviving is a job worth doing well, cara mia.” He advised, holding her face in his hands and staring in her eyes. “You are a survivor. There is no shame in it.” 

They were the same, after all. Death wish or no. 

She closed her eyes, lashes brushing against her cheeks. “Are you just saying that because you want to fuck me? Cause you don’t have to be so nice. I’d do it now.” 

He laughed, pressing an almost chaste kiss to her forehead. “Ah! I knew I had you summed up. But, no. I do not need to lie to get you into bed, yes?” 

“There isn’t a bed.” Narah huffed. “Not even a shitty one.” 

“Then I suppose you must simply lean on me.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and brought her cool, solid weight closer to him. She was soft beneath his grip, soft enough to do so many pleasant things.

And he would. But not tonight. 

Instead, he tangled his fingers in her long dark curls. “Now. Shall I tell you of my misspent youth in Antiva, mi amor?” 

“May as well.” She mumbled, burying her face into his tunic. A second past before she whispered, soft as silk, into the fabric. “Thank you, Zevran.” 

His heart ached, the knot in his gut tightening, but it was nothing more than a tangled web of lust, gratitude, and admiration. 

Surely. 

_It had to be._

**Author's Note:**

> Bellissima - beautiful  
> Cara mia - my darling  
> Bambolotta - little doll  
> Mi amor - my love 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Check out some other [Black Emporium 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BlackEmporium2020) fics and art while you're out and about!
> 
> I typically write dwarves. So many dwarves. Kinda lowkey obsessed with Varric Tethras. If any of that sounds like a good time, maybe consider my Tumblr [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](https://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com/)


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